K. Rich. Now put it, heaven, in his physician's mind, To help him to his grave immediately! The lining of his coffers shall make coats Pray God, we may make haste, and come too late! [Exeunt. ACT II. SCENE I. LONDON. A ROOM IN ELY-HOUSE. Gaunt on a Couch; the Duke of York, and Others standing by him. Gaunt. Will the king come? that I may breathe my last In wholesome counsel to his unstay'd youth. York. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath; For all in vain comes counsel to his ear. Gaunt. O, but, they say, the tongues of dying men Enforce attention, like deep harmony: Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain; For they breathe truth, that breathe their words in pain. He, that no more must say, is listen'd more Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose; More are men's ends mark'd, than their lives be fore: The setting sun, and musick at the close, As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last; Writ in remembrance, more than things long past: Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear, My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear. York. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds, As, praises of his state: then, there are found Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity, lose. Gaunt. Methinks, I am a prophet new inspir'd; And thus, expiring, do foretel of him:His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last; For violent fires soon burn out themselves: Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short; He tires betimes, that spurs too fast betimes; Consuming means, soon preys upon itself. This fortress, built by nature for herself, This precious stone set in the silver sea, This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England, This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings, Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's son: Enter King Richard, and Queen; Aumerle, Bushy, York. The king is come: deal mildly with his youth; For young hot colts, being rag'd, do rage the more. Queen. How fares our noble uncle, Lancaster? K. Rich. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt. O, how that name befits my composi tion! Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old: Gaunt. No, misery makes sport to mock itself: Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me, I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee. K. Rich. Should dying men flatter with those that live? Gaunt. No, no; men living flatter those that die. K. Rich. Thou, now a-dying, say'st-thou flat ter'st me. Gaunt. Oh! no; thou diest, though I the sicker be. K. Rich. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill. Gaunt. Now, He that made me, knows I see thee ill; Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill. |